


Busy

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Finwe's A+ Parenting, Gen, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: Summary: Finwë hopes his best is good enough. A follow-up scene to “Confessions of a Teenage Drama Prince.”Inspired by Nina Simone’s performance of “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” for SWG’s Sirens and Songstresses challenge.





	Busy

Fëanáro stands before him with all the confidence a boy his age can muster (at least Finwë assumes so, for he cannot imagine any more). His words are unhalting, bringing forth a simple truth.

“It was some months ago, Atar,” he explains. “Master Mahtan thought I was ready, and so did the other examiners.”

It is a milestone. A small one, perhaps. One of many in a young man’s life, but one that Fëanáro went through alone. (As if he lost both parents, which he says with his formality if not his words.)

“Why did you not tell me?” Finwë asks, wondering briefly if he remembered to ask. (The last time they ate together, perhaps. When was that? He can only remember the endless tasks of ruling bleeding into the long nights of fatherhood.)

“You were busy.”

He can see Míriel so strongly, hand on her hip, brows furrowed as she says the same thing in the same tone, her voice no softer than his. Too busy for the kingdom, never, she said with the slight sheen in her eyes. Too busy for her was far too easy.

Fëanáro is like her, so much that it hurts. (Too like her. Too easy to remember the grief during times of joy. Even easier to want to forget.) But the pain burns bright with love, the way she looked down at him in those brief moments when they were a family, the pride of his excellence both academic and in his chosen craft (not one Finwë would have chosen, but he cannot stop his son’s gifts from being expressed).

Nothing is simple. Nothing with this boy especially is ever simple, no matter how plainly he speaks (how clean his words, how he practices precision as if his every syllable is a test of his worthiness). It was all so clear in Finwë’s mind, but for all he knew how to speak to others, his words fell flat at the feet of his firstborn.

“I love you” is too prosaic, “I miss you” too trite. “I wish things were different” would be met with a scoff, he knows that all too well because it is all his fault (at least Fëanáro knows this to be true, and moving his mind is like moving Manwë off of Taniquetil for a trifle).

There is nothing he can say. Nothing he can do. If Fëanáro does not trust him now, if the breach is too wide, he knows no way to fix it. Fëanáro is too old to draw into his arms and pretend that will fix everything. The embrace will end as his childhood did, an awkward parting with no way to go back and change things.

(How could he have? He asks himself. He was never a son, he was never a father. Grief came easier than parenthood.)

“Will I see less of you now?” Finwë knows the question is wrong as soon as he speaks it. He has barely seen Fëanáro since before this happened. He hides away in his rooms, when he cannot find a reason to leave.

Fëanáro’s body answers for him: stiff posture, a long, slow blink as he folds his fingers together.

“We will celebrate tonight,” Finwë says, when the staring becomes too uncomfortable. “Dinner. All of your favorite things.” He pauses. “Just us, if you wish.” (But even in this hallway, they are not alone. He hears the baby crying, footsteps of someone following the noise. He fights his instinct to do the same.)

Fëanáro’s gaze lightens slightly and his hands fall to his sides. He really is just a boy (so young to be so skilled in his craft, Finwë could burst with pride). But when he hears the cry down the hall, his fingers find their way together again.

“You are busy,” he says. Nods, as if they are in council instead of home. (Finwë’s home. Perhaps Fëanáro’s is in the burning forges with an anvil and hammer that keep him better company.)

Finwë’s arm finds his shoulder before he can turn away entirely. (When did it turn from the spindly arm of a boy to the muscles of a man?) Fëanáro’s shoulder is tense, as if it too waits for something.

“I love you,” Finwë yearns to say, but that is an uncomplicated truth in a complicated life. He settles for “I would have attended your examination, had I known.”

Fëanáro looks at him as if he can see to his very soul, as if he were the father and Finwë the son. A slow smile forms on his face but there is no joy in it. It is Míriel’s smile when she had to be queen. (It was Míriel’s smile when he told her she would be well again.)

“I cannot get him to settle down,” says another voice when the silence becomes unbearable. He has hardly noticed Indis (for all Fëanáro thinks she has usurped everything) walking up beside him, Nolofinwë in her arms. His face is red, his fists balled, tears fall down his cheeks. Here is simplicity, the life that is so easy to fall into.

Finwë watches the false smile fall from Fëanáro’s face. He looks between them (father, mother, son, and he is none of them) and nods his head once more, muttering something to himself under his breath.

“You are busy,” he says, and retreats with unnatural grace.

“What was that about?” Indis asks Finwë as he reaches out his hand to the baby. The tiny fingers find their way to his so easily, and the little face looks up at him with uncomplicated eyes. Food, comfort, warmth. That is all Nolofinwë needs, and even adrift in a sea of thoughts, Finwë can do that.

That night, Finwë twirls his spoon in a bowl of Fëanáro’s favorite soup. (He wonders if he is the only one to notice Fëanáro’s absence. It tears into him again, rips apart the scar of loss that is still somehow healing. Míriel would know what to do with him. Míriel made everything simple, only to make things unbearably complicated in her absence. And he is the very spit of her, even with Finwë’s hair. Her wildfire was no less tamable than his.)

For all the boy’s maturity, Finwë can only hope he understands. (He is doing his best. He would parade his son before the people every day if the year if he would only let him. He is learning too slowly for his gifted son who burns things down faster than they can grow. One day, Finwë hopes. One day, they will speak as men, and he will understand. But not now. Fëanáro is busy.)


End file.
